


you call the shots, babe

by witchofspaz



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, Age Difference, BDSM, Collars, Dom Dirk Strider, Dom/sub, Gags, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Inexperience, Unrelated Striders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 10:58:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchofspaz/pseuds/witchofspaz
Summary: He ruffles your hair gently. “Bend your head for me, Dave.” You obey, and he buckles the collar around your neck. He takes something else from his pocket, and then you hear a click behind you, and you realize he’s padlocked the fastening closed. You make a soft noise in the back of your throat and fidget, just a little. It’s hard to understand how you can be so scared and feel safer than you’ve ever felt in your life at the same time.





	you call the shots, babe

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this a couple months ago without any real intention of posting it but here we are
> 
> some background on the au cuz i doubt i'm do more for it than like. whatever porn i feel like writing: dave is 21 and lives with mom (rose is at college), dirk is 40ish and his next door neighbor. dave was horny at first sight and basically wheedled dirk into a relationship by refusing to shut up or go away and dirk proposed a formalized D/s relationship bc this child is stressed out and needs a strong male role model to keep him in hand
> 
> if bad decisions is my (and laura's) attempt to treat age differences w seriousness and sensitivity, this is the polar opposite of that it's just horny FKAJSDLKGJLSKDG this dynamic def wouldn't be healthy but this is me writing it like What If It Was bc i find it comforting as a fantasy
> 
> tl;dr as hibi put it, this is my emotional support daddy dirk

You stand in the center of the room, trying not to tremble from the odd mix of anticipation, nervousness, and excitement that’s cresting in your chest. Dirk approaches slowly from behind—you can hear his footsteps, but only just barely. His hands rest on your shoulders, skim down your arms, raising the hair as they go. He grabs your hips and tugs you firmly back against him, making you gasp. He makes a rumbly noise and it vibrates against your back as he tilts your head back against his shoulder. You pant as his hand cups you with little delicacy or gentleness.

“Already hard,” he notes with a touch of amusement. You struggle not to cant your hips into Dirk’s palm.

“Yeah,” you breathe.

Dirk’s body stiffens against yours, and he slaps your cheek—not hard, but enough to sting. “What did we talk about, Dave?”

“Yes, sir,” you correct hurriedly.

“Good. Undress, then kneel.” He releases you, leaving you feeling strangely cold, then sits on the couch, crosses his legs, and watches so intently that his gaze makes you shiver before you’ve removed a single stitch of clothing. Your shaking hands unfasten your fly, push your jeans and underwear down, pull your t-shirt over your head. Dirk scrutinizes every movement, making you feel naked in more than just the literal sense.

Awkwardly, too conscious of every tiny thing your body is doing, you get on your knees, legs folded under you. You wait for Dirk to give another order, or make a move, but he just keeps watching for what feels like ages, until tears gather in your eyes, and you’re not even sure why.

He stands then, and walks to you slowly. Lifting your chin with his fingers, he very gently wipes away the salt water that has accumulated at the corners of your eyes with his thumb.

“I know it’s hard, Dave. It’s all new, and frightening. You’re doing very well.”

“Thank you, sir,” you say, surprising yourself with the hoarseness of your voice.

“I have something for you.”

“Oh,” you say dumbly. He slaps you again, a little harder this time.

“What do you say when you’re given a gift, Dave? Do you say ‘oh’?” His voice has a bit of an edge to it now.

“No, sir,” you say, the tears welling up. “I’m sorry sir.”

“What do you say?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That’s right.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out, and your heart thumps against your rib cage when you recognize what it is. “A collar is a very personal thing,” he explains, holding it out so you can see the detail in the tooled leather. It’s dyed a deep red, and really quite beautiful. “I thought you deserved to have one that was made with you in mind.”

“Th… thank you, sir.” You didn’t expect this—the collar, yes, but not that he _made_ one just for you—and you’re a little overwhelmed.

He ruffles your hair gently. “Bend your head for me, Dave.” You obey, and he buckles the collar around your neck. He takes something else from his pocket, and then you hear a click behind you, and you realize he’s padlocked the fastening closed. You make a soft noise in the back of your throat and fidget, just a little. It’s hard to understand how you can be so scared and feel safer than you’ve ever felt in your life at the same time.

Dirk strokes a hand through your hair once, then tilts your head back so you’re looking up at him. “It looks good on you,” he says warmly, and you glow from the praise. His hand slides over your jaw, cupping it, and he rubs his thumb over your lower lip. You open for him with the slightest pressure and his thumb slides into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. He tilts his head, studying your reaction as he pushes the digit further in, until you start to choke a little. “Stay calm,” he orders softly, and you struggle to adjust. You ultimately succeed, although your breathing is heavy and ragged by the time you stop gagging. “Very good.” He withdraws his thumb and gently wipes the drool from your chin.

He returns to the couch, and beckons to you. “Come here. In my lap.” You start to stand, and freeze when he clicks his tongue. “No, Dave. Stay on your knees. You will not stand until I tell you that you can.”

“Yes, sir,” you whisper, and crawl on hands and knees to him. He arranges you as he likes on his lap: thighs spread, knees to either side of his hips. You brace yourself with hands on his broad shoulders, but he gently removes them and pins them behind your back with one huge hand. With the other he pulls a pair of leather cuffs from his pocket—you wonder idly how much he’s hiding in those jeans—and locks them closed around your wrists. He makes a vaguely pleased-sounding grunt when you’ve been rendered thus helpless, and slides his hands over your waist. You squirm a little in response to the touch, and he snorts softly.

“You don’t know how to hold still, you?”

“No, sir,” you admit, shamefaced.

“We’ll have to work on that.” His hands slide down to cup your ass and pull your hips into his. You hiss and bite your lip as your naked erection rubs against the rough denim of his jeans.

“I thought about ropes,” he says conversationally, running his fingers up and down your restrained arm. “Something more restricting. But that can be a little intense, and it’s your first time. It’s safer to ease you in and work up to the heavier shit session by session. It’s very important to me that you have a good experience, you understand?”

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir,” you say softly, and he smiles briefly and grazes his fingers over your cheek. He’s being kinder than he’s ever been to you; the first few months of your interactions with him mostly consisted of him gruffly shooing you away, then reluctantly allowing you to watch him work. Conversation developed gradually, as you peppered him with enough questions about his projects that he had to finally answer one or two. One or two answers turned to paragraphs of detailed explanation, as he warmed to you. Some of it went straight over your head, but you didn’t mind. You were just happy he bothered to give an obnoxious punk kid like you his time. You just like listening to his gravelly voice, watching the way his lips move as he speaks.

Sliding his fingers into your hair, Dirk cups the back of your head and holds it so that you have to look at him. You could still avert your eyes, technically, but you don’t dare. His gaze is even more intense up close.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Dave? You may speak freely.”

“Yes, sir, I…” You’re tingling all over, intensely aware of your nakedness and his complete lack of the same, of his size and strength relative to yours, of the weight of his age next to your own. You are entirely in his power, but… you chose it, and that makes it yours.

Also, your dick is so hard you think you might die if he doesn’t touch it soon.

“... Yes, I am,” you finish anticlimactically.

He chuckles, a warm, impossibly deep sound that makes your dick throb. “Good.” He adjusts the position of your head and kisses you, at first softly but escalating at a maddenly slow pace, and it’s only as his tongue seems to be counting your molars and you’re squirming and whining in his lap that you realize he’s never kissed you before. Given the single-minded desperation with which you pursued him, and your alternating elation and despair at every little victory and defeat, it’s kind of surprising that you didn’t before now. The intensity of his interest, once he finally turned it on you, was so intoxicating that you didn’t notice how, though he touched you—nothing too intimate before tonight, just hands on your hips and your waist and your neck, pushing you against the wall of his house and quietly, calmly uttering velvet threats into your ear—his lips never actually came into contact with yours.

They certainly fucking have now. He’s kissing you like he’s learning you, like he’s mapping every contour of your mouth. That’s probably exactly what he’s doing. He told you in clear and certain terms that he intends to discover everything about you, even things you don’t want to show him, even things you don’t know yourself. It’s what a good dom does, he said. Can’t properly take you apart until he understands how all the pieces fit together in the first place. You moan helplessly at the memory, and his fingers tighten almost painfully on your waist.

He eases your head back, and once again studies your face. You can feel that your lips are swollen, and your face flushed. Your eyes are heavy lidded and you’re slightly dizzy, but in a pleasant way.

“Nice,” Dirk comments. “Face down across my lap now, sweetheart.” It’s hard with your arms cuffed behind your back, but he helps you, guiding and supporting you with his hands until you’re laid out over his legs with your aching dick pressed into the space between his thighs. He smooths a palm over your ass, feeling its contours. You tense, and he laughs, just shy of meanly. “I’m not going to spank you tonight, Dave. Chill.”

“Sorry, sir,” you murmur, trying to relax.

“I have another present for you.” You hear a soft clink. You can’t see whatever it is, but you dutifully thank him anyway. “Given how fond you are of the sound of your own voice, I suspect this will be the most intense part of the scene for you.” Your heart begins to pound. “Head up, mouth open wide.”

You obey, and a hard rubber ball is pushed past your lips. It fits just behind your teeth, filling your mouth and keeping it open. Dirk fastens the strap firmly but not uncomfortably behind your head, and you push at the ball experimentally with your tongue. It barely budges, and you make a helpless sound without meaning to. It’s slightly distorted by the gag, which draws another sound from you in response. Dirk pets your hair and your back and you calm, closing your eyes and pressing your face into the couch.

“Good boy.” His voice is so warm. His hands too—his body always feels like a furnace to you, and you want to press yourself against it forever, and never be cold again. His hands return to your ass, spreading it, businesslike but not impersonal. He rubs gently at your hole with the tip of a finger, and your body jerks involuntarily. “Have you ever had a prostate orgasm, Dave?” Jesus.

“No, sir,” you squeak, face burning. You’re not _exactly_ 100% a virgin, but you’re not exactly experienced either—especially not with dudes—and he knows that. He went over your sexual history with you in excruciating detail as you were working out limits and boundaries—to give him an idea of how to handle you best, he said, but it only just now occurs to you that it may have doubled as a subtle exertion of his dominance. By that point you had already told him you were cool with humiliation play.

“That should be fun to explore, don’t you think? But not today.” He pats you on the ass, a bit like you’re a child, or a dog. “I’m going to roll you over, Dave. Try not to fall on the floor.”

You slur acknowledgement and he removes the cuff from one of your wrists, then turns you carefully until you’re arched across his lap and your erection curves over your stomach, dripping pre into your belly button. “You have a real nice dick,” he tells you, but doesn’t touch it. First he refastens the cuff with your hands in front of you, then stretches your arms over your head, keeping them pinned to the couch with a single hand. You feel very small, in both the nice way and the scary way.

He draws a finger up your cock from base to tip and you moan through the gag. Your hips lift off his lap involuntarily, seeking a firmer touch, and he clicks his tongue and pushes them back down. “Restraint, Dave. You will take what I choose to give you.” You whine but make an assenting noise, and he rewards you with a hand wrapped around your dick—one firm stroke and then he leaves it bereft in favor of teasing your balls. You release a sobbing breath, but stay still.

“Look at me.” Your eyes find his face shakily. “At my eyes, Dave.” When you obey, he gives you what you want: he touches you and keeps touching you. You whine and shake, and he holds your wrists firm against the couch cushion. When your eyes slip closed, he withdraws his hand immediately and smacks your tender inner thigh. It _stings_, and you yelp.

“I told you to look at me, Dave. Did I say you could close your eyes?”

“No sir,” you say tearfully—or try, but it’s garbled by the gag in your mouth.

“No, I didn’t. Keep them open.”

You nod frantically, locking eyes with him, and he pats your leg. “Good boy.” You’re squirming and over-sensitized, and once he resumes the handjob it doesn’t take long before you’re riding the edge of orgasm.

“Are you ready to come, Dave?” You nod, moaning helplessly, no longer able to keep your hips from pushing up into his hand. “Ask for permission.”

He’s given you the correct phrasing in advance, and somehow you remember it, though it hardly comes out clearly. “Please, sir, can I come?”

“Go ahead,” Dirk says silkily, and you’re gone the second the words leave his lips. You yell through your gag, and he presses your dick to your stomach so you squirt all over your belly and chest as you come harder than you ever have in your life. He milks you through it with long, slow strokes of his hand and soft, gentle verbal praise. He tells you you’re beautiful, and you have to believe it.

You’re half sure you actually black out, because you seem to lose time, and when you come back to awareness you’re on your back on the couch, your hands cuffed behind you again and trapped under your body, and Dirk is standing over you. He’s huge from your vantage point, and your spent dick gives a half-hearted twitch at his seemingly dispassionate gaze. You watch hungrily as he unzips his fly and fishes out his cock. It’s thick and uncut, and you want it more than you want to keep breathing.

He holds it in his hand, shaking it a little in your direction. “You want this?” He seems to take your responding moan as the assent it decidedly is. “Too bad,” he drawls, as he starts to stroke himself. “Touching me is a privilege you have to earn, boy. But if you’re that eager to take the place of a wad of tissues, I’m happy to oblige you.” It’s the meanest he’s been to you yet tonight, and you feel like you’re a hair away from actually getting hard again. You really are fucked up.

He takes his time, and lasts much longer than you did. When he comes it’s with nothing more than a quiet grunt, and he aims it at your body, crisscrossing the drying stripes of jizz with his own. You gasp and twitch as it hits your skin. 

He’s quiet as he carefully tucks himself back in his pants, his eyes on you the whole time like he’s taking in every detail. “You look good like that,” he tells you finally. “My very own Jackson Pollock.” You can’t help a surprised laugh even as the possessive pronoun brings heat to your chest and your groin.

“You did very well, Dave.” He kneels and helps you lift your head so he can unbuckle the gag. Your jaw is stiff, unused to closing, and he massages it with careful fingers. “Don’t move, kid.” Like you could if you wanted to. “I need to clean you up before you mess my couch.” He’s not gone long, and he returns with a soft, damp cloth that he uses to clean up your chest and stomach. The cuffs are next; he rolls you onto your front and unlocks them, then helps you sit up. When he reaches for your collar, you stop him with a hand on your wrist.

“Um, can I keep it on a little longer?” You can’t make eye contact. You’re not sure why you’re asking, except that it makes you feel safe somehow.

He studies your face for what feels like a century before nodding. “Okay. If that’s what you want. Just let me know when you want it off.” You nod. He pulls you against his side and you feel your eyes welling up. His kindness is somehow more overwhelming than when he was literally slapping you around.

“How are you feeling, kid?” he says gruffly, petting your head.

“Good, I think,” you say, muffled against his shoulder. “Tired.”

“‘Good’ is what I’m aiming for,” he tells you, rubbing your back, “and tired is normal. I have some work to get done, but you can stay here and rest if you want. It would be better if you did, actually. I would prefer to keep an eye on you, just in case.”

“Mmkay.” You don’t really want to move, and he indulges you, letting you lean against him and stroking and petting you occasionally. You must doze off at some point, because you open your eyes and he’s gone. You’re prone on the couch, and still naked, but you’ve been covered with a blanket. You touch your neck and find with a queer sense of relief that the collar is still there. So is Dirk, you realize—he’s not gone; you recognize the soft tapping of his keyboard from across the room. You smile secretly to yourself as you drift back to sleep, warm and safe.


End file.
